Shadow of the Fall: A Novel

By Aaron T. Brownell

All Kristin Hughes wanted was a vacation on a quiet beach in Croatia. Sadly, that isnt the way life works for NESTs top agent in a world filled with spies, national security threats, and impending doom. As soon as she is dragged back to work by her CIA counterpart, the beautiful yet stubborn scientist instantly finds herself and her Nuclear Emergency Search Team on a cross-country quest to locate and disable a pair of terrorist bombs.

The breadbasket of America has transformed into ground zero for a sinister plot to destroy the nation. European arms dealer Adrian Beqiri has been buying old Soviet nuclear weapons for a shadowy figure who is now planning to send the weaponized nukes hurtling toward Chicago. As Hughes, with help from the FBI and CIA, races to track and stop the nukes from destroying the heartland and impending G8 Summit, only time will tell if she and the NEST team can prevent nuclear annihilation or if the terrorists will succeed in toppling a nation.

In this thrilling tale, NESTs top agent is sent on a race to prevent nuclear destruction as a corrupt European plots to topple the United States during the G8 summit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532050718

Aaron T. Brownell

Aaron Brownell is the internationally award winning author of five previous novels Reflection, Contention, The Long Path, Progression, and Shadow of the Fall. When not traveling the globe for work, he resides in Texas. Visit his website at www.litiwrit.com.

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Copyright © 2018 Aaron T. Brownell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5072-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5071-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906838

iUniverse rev. date: 07/31/2018

Thank you:

Once again I would like to thank my good friend Jeffery for correcting and massaging my horrendous use of the English language. I owe him beers.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

CHAPTER 1

L ieutenant Colonel Pickard watched the young woman tap the eraser end of a pencil on the casing of the device. Each time the eraser tip struck the weapon he could feel his blood pressure rise. He could not for the life of himself figure out how he had come to be sequestered in an ammunition bunker with a live nuclear device and a seemingly crazy woman, but he now just hoped he made it out in one piece. He also couldn’t quite figure out how the flash traffic communications from the base weapons team had landed the young woman at his doorstep, but he was sure it would all end badly.

The young woman leaning over the open bomb casing, wearing beach shorts and blue bikini top, could not be any more than in her mid-20s. Her hair pulled back into a loose blond ponytail made her look ever younger than that. The thick black plastic rimmed glasses she was wearing just made her look strange.

Hmm, that’s odd. Not bad odd, but just odd.

What’s odd? The military officer didn’t really want to ask the question, it was reflex.

Every time I tap the outer casing, the elevational-timer jumps down a number. The actual clockwork isn’t really moving, as much as the analog display is. I was hoping it was going to be a mechanical problem. It’s usually a straight up mechanical problem when they’ve been in the crate as long as this fellow has. This, however, is definitely an electrical problem. That’s odd.

What does odd mean, exactly?"

Well, the same way a plane’s control surfaces are basically electric-over-hydraulic, and a computer actually flies the plane –

You mean, fly-by-wire?

Exactly. You can think of a nuclear bomb the same way. Just here, it’s electric-over-mechanical. Normally, when a mechanical problem appears, you unplug the electronics and fix the mechanics.

But, you don’t when it’s electronic?

It’s certainly not recommended. With the electronics being on the top end, they can act as a mask. The problem could be an electronics component issue, or they could be masking some mechanical problem downstream of the trigger assembly. Masking in such a way as to make it appear upstream, follow? If you just unplug it, it could go boom.

The lieutenant colonel visibly blanched. Kristin smiled at the man softly and looked back down at the device, which she had disassembled as far as she was comfortable.

Dr. Kristin Marie Hughes, twenty nine years old and leading field operative for the Nuclear Emergency Search Team (NEST), was nobody’s idea of your typical weapon’s specialist. At 5 feet 6 inches tall, crystal clear blue eyes, and a beach-caliber body that tipped the scales at about 120 pounds, she was much more surfer girl than scientist. This was especially true considering her current state of dress. Sadly, her b-cup bikini seemed to always make more of an impression on people than her PhD in Nuclear Physics or her expertise with weapons.

In a funny way, her toned physique had nothing to do with her All-American beach girl persona. Living in Henderson, Nevada, outside Las Vegas, she spent her off time rock climbing, or mountain biking. She was a naturally outdoorsy girl and it showed in her attributes.

Why was she currently in Italy? Well, she wasn’t. Not really. She had been on a beach in Croatia when the problem with the nuke had first started. A phone call, a helo ride, and a Mach 2.0 fighter jet flight had put her down in Camp Darby, Italy, in record time. The base’s bomb handling unit, currently standing outside the ammunition bunker, was not happy when she appeared and universally took control of the situation. The base commander, Lt. Col. Pickard, was equally unhappy when he was locked in the ammunition bunker with her. Such is the way, some days.

So colonel, married? Any kids? Most base commanders have families. They must love it in Italy?

Ah – yes. I have a wife, and a daughter in high school.

What’s her name?

My daughter? It’s Sam. That’s short for Samantha. And yes, she really likes Italy. She goes to the local high school. Why do you ask?

Talking about familiar topics tends to calm people. You were starting to look freaked out.

We’re locked in an ammunition bunker with an activated 20-kiloton nuclear bomb. Shouldn’t I be freaked out?

Kristin laughed quietly and smiled at the colonel.

You have no idea how many times I’ve been in this situation. It’s really not that crazy a scenario. Besides, there’s lots of elevation left on the altimeter. We’ll get this old boy calmed down, long before it gets upset.

The color started to creep back into colonel Pickard’s face. While what she said was true, and they most-likely would fix the nuke with no issues, activated nuclear weapons were notoriously touchy creatures. It really could all end badly.

Kristin turned her attention back to the ticking time bomb in front of her. This early-era Cold War bomb was a predecessor to the current era of sophisticated nuclear warheads. Where today’s generation of weapons were warheads on missiles, this beauty was a big drop bomb with an altimeter for a trigger. It was certainly something built before the doctor was born. It would be like working on her grandmother’s tube radio without any instructions or proper tools. But sometimes, like today, the coolest part was just figuring it all out as you went along.

What do you say we get about fixing this thing, colonel?

The colonel nodded enthusiastically and Kristin gave him a warm smile. Her All-American smile had a way of making men calm.

Could you please hand me that No. 12 Torx driver? It’s the blue handle, third from the left.

The colonel picked up the tool and handed it over to her, grip first. Kristin tried the tool on the exposed screw head and then sat it on the ground next to her leg.

Okay, let’s try the No. 13. That one was a tad too small.

The colonel handed over the next tool and leaned slightly forward to watch the crazy woman work. Kristin checked the driver on the screw head and then sat it on the ground next to her other leg. Feeling semi-good about her path forward, she picked up a No. 7 Phillips head screwdriver and removed the screws holding the adjacent exterior panel. She stopped for a moment as she placed the panel on the ground next to the others and took stock of the sheer number of pieces. Modern nuclear weapons were a study in simplicity. This bomb had more pieces than a child’s erector set. They really didn’t make them like this one anymore. It was the Urban Dictionary definition of Old School.

Bending all the way over the device, Kristin shoved her head as far inside the device as it would physically fit. Several grunts and hmms emanated from inside the casing before her face reemerged. She picked up the pencil and gave the casing a quick tap, tap, tap, before straightening up. As expected, the altimeter jumped three times in corresponding to the taps.

Kristin leaned back and returned to her original cross-legged sitting position. She pushed the black framed glasses up on top of her temples and her glacier-blue eyes sparkled in the dim light. A mild look of bemusement ate at the edges of her neutral expression.

Sir? Could you hand me that can of diet Mountain Dew, please?

The base commander handed over the room-temperature canned soft drink and watched the crazy bomb technician down about half of its contents with a large gulping sound. Kristin returned the can to the colonel and cracked her knuckles in a pre-fight sort of way.

You can have the rest of it if you want. It’s kind of muggy in here. I just needed to run a little liquid down my throat. This next part tends to make my mouth dry.

The base commander blanched and swallowed audibly. He looked down at the young scientist with a kind of fatherly disbelief.

Before you take the next big leap, may I ask you a question?

Yes, sir. Fire away.

What do your parents think about you running around the globe, defusing nuclear bombs, at your age?

Kristin looked down at the clockwork laid out before her and was momentarily sad. It had been some time since she had thought about her parents. It usually only hit home around the holidays. The old soldier looked down at her and could tell that he had unintentionally penetrated her well-worn armor. He instantly regretted having asked the question, but the damage had been done. And, as quick as it had appeared, the melancholy was gone, and a smile once-again covered the young doctor’s face. Kristin looked back at Pickard with her usual exuberant optimism.

"My mom was a medical doctor. She had a family practice, mostly kids and older people. She was beautiful and very kind. My dad was an Army Ranger. He had a CIB, Bronze Star, and a fist-full of other ribbons. He was sturdy, and so gentle you couldn’t believe he was a soldier. He used to let me blow things up out on the demolitions range at Fort Benning when I was little. It was great fun. Some of the other operators would let me play in the MOUT Village. Blanks only, but it was still loads of crazy.

They both died in a car accident, when I was twelve. I was at a friend’s house for a sleep over. They were out to dinner. The roads were awful. A big truck came around a corner and hit them head-on. I ended up finishing out school at Benning. I got custodied over to the unit commander, like a ruck full of old gear. It was cool, I spent most of my time at his house anyway. He had two daughters that were my age."

The colonel looked down at the floor and moved some dust around with the toe of his spit-shined combat boot.

The 75th Ranger Regiment. I know some operators from the 75th. They are world-class soldiers. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open old wounds.

No worries, colonel. It was long, long ago. In a galaxy far, far away. I take what was given me, and I do what I can with it. It’s Okay.

Do you see your foster father anymore?

Dave? Yes. I make sure I track him down every Father’s Day. He’s retired now. The family is scattered all about, but he and his wife are usually bombing around the Southwest in a big RV. Dave’s great! He never tried to be my dad. Not one time. He just was there for me, you know? He and June are good people.

Well, that’s good to hear that you have someone to turn to.

I’m pretty much boots-on-the-ground all the time. It’s the way my life is most comfortable. Dave’s cool with that. I’m sure that my dad would have been too. He probably would have made a Ranger out of me, if he’d been given the time. That would have been okay, I guess? I’m good with the drills, but not really much for the rigid command structure, if you know what I mean.

The wily old soldier laughed out loud. The booming sound echoed through the complete stillness of the ammunition bunker.

Young lady, I know exactly what you mean. I have a bunch of troops that seem to think a lot like you. It’s the curse of youth, and easy living.

I think you’re right.

The two smiled warmly and truly at each other for the first time since they had been locked in the bunker together. The soldier was happy to see that the unorthodox scientist he had been sent was not actually crazy. The young lady helping out was happy to see that the old soldier could recognize common ground.

Well, colonel, what do you say we finish this little science project before Lou calls and starts chewing me a new one.

Lou?

Lou Stenson, NEST operations chief. The dude who thinks he actually is my dad.

The colonel’s eyes widened at the mentioning of the SEAL’s name, so that Kristin could see the colonel’s pupils dilate. The instant respect given to individuals based upon their merit had always been one of the things Kristin had respected about all the branches of service.

Well, we wouldn’t want to make your de-facto dad mad now, would we?

Kristin chuckled, No, that’s generally a bad idea.

The colonel took a drink of the now warm and dusty soft drink, and then sat the can behind the tools on the workbench. Looking down at the young scientist, cross-legged on the floor in front of the semi-dismantled nuclear bomb, he nodded a firm ‘Let’s Go’ nod to the girl.

Okay, see that square box, about two-inches square, that I exposed?

The colonel nodded.

That is the actual timer. The analog readout is just a readout display. That is the actual timing device. It inserts itself into the trigger actuator behind it by means of a splined-gear drive. The trigger actuator is that 4-inch square grey box behind it.

Once again, the colonel nodded in understanding.

Now, the off-blue bracket above the timing trigger actuator assembly definitely should not be bent like that. This explains why the timing device isn’t sitting square and tight against the trigger actuator. The reason the display jumps when you tap it is because the gear drive inserted in the trigger actuator is slipping.

Kristin stopped her tutorial and looked at the colonel. The base commander nodded his understanding of the mechanics.

Good news first - we can easily shut the old boy down. Bad news second - I seriously don’t think it’s fixable. Parts for something like this probably no longer exist. You’re gonna want to send it out of stock when we’re finished.

The base commander nodded his actual understanding of the implications of her statement. Basically, heads were going to roll.

I need you to gently grasp the timing device. I’m going to stick my hands inside the casing and find the junction plug, where the timing device plugs into the main firing harness. Once I have it, I will count down from three. Upon zero, we will both pull our individual pieces out. Simple, right?

Seems easy enough.

We need to do it at the same time. If you pull early, a capacitor will discharge inside the trigger assembly and it will go off. If I pull early, lack of electric loading will let the gear-drive spin freely and the auxiliary feed circuit will set the bomb off.

What keeps it from doing that anyway?

See that small hole, what looks like the override eject of a CD-ROM drive?

The colonel nodded.

That is a hole for a safety wire. The safety wire keeps it from doing that very thing. Behind you there are a couple pieces of round steel, about the size of a 7 mm pencil lead. Grab one.

The colonel grabbed one of the wires and handed it to Kristin. She inserted the wire into the hole until it stopped and it felt secure. She checked it a second time to make sure it was snug.

Okay, ready? Go ahead and grab ahold of the timing device.

The colonel bent over top of the young scientist and very gently grasped the small square metal box. He found it surprisingly cool to the touch. Kristin wriggled her hand inside the casing until she was in to the elbow. Exhaling gently, she fished around for several moments before finding what she wanted.

What do you think, sir? Are you ready?

The base commander nodded hesitantly. Kristin smiled up at him in reassurance.

Okay. Three, two, one – zero.

An audible thump echoed off the walls as the base commander extracted the timing device out of the trigger actuator. Pulling up on the housing, the unhooked plug end of the assembly also slid free of the connector boot. Kristin exhaled audibly into the open bomb casing. Neither person moved for a good 30 seconds, waiting. Finally, Kristin relaxed and the colonel followed suit.

Well, that went better than planned.

The colonel blanched. What do you mean by that?

"Old nukes are touchy creatures. They could easily go off as many times as not. I usually just plan on them going off. It keeps me calmer than if I think they just might go off."

The colonel was about to come unhinged when he stumbled upon an age-old grain of truth in her words. Plan for the worst. It made sense to him, all things considered. So, he calmed.

Kristin stood and collected her tools. She laid all the tools back in the order that they had been when she started and wiped the dust from the back side of her shorts.

Now, I did you a favor, can you do me one? The bomb dogs outside are going to be justifiably pissed. I don’t want to have to deal with that on vacation. Can you get me out of here without being tossed to the wolves?

Absolutely.

Second. It’s my professional opinion that this particular nuclear weapon should have been decommissioned two decades ago. It’s also my professional opinion that at some point over the past 60 years, this bomb was dropped. That is the only thing that explains the bracket being bent the way it is. This was strictly a matter of time in the making.

The colonel nodded again, this time with a seething anger that would lead to inquiries.

Thing three. You remember me saying I was on vacation?

The colonel nodded.

I really don’t want to spend the next three days doing paperwork on this. What say you give all your bomb dogs an impacted AAM or some such thing, and forget I was ever here?

The soldier looked down at what easily could have been his own daughter and smiled a very knowing smile.

Stealthy exit?

Exactly.

Just like an operator. The Rangers would be proud of you.

Kristin smiled back a wry and solemn kind of smile. Thank you, sir.

The base commander walked to the door of the ammunition bunker and wrapped on the heavy metal door three times. The door slid open, and the senior man stopped everyone outside in their tracks. He could tell they had been prowling around outside the door like a bunch of feral cats. Kristin hopped up on the workbench and rubbed her temples with the palms of her hands. This was her life. She really did love it, but the adrenaline dump at the end left her kind of spent.

The colonel came back into the bunker and waved at Kristin. She jumped off the bench and walked to the heavy blast door.

I’ll escort you out of here, so you don’t get any bother. It’s getting a little late to be flying you back to Croatia, so my assistant has made you a reservation at a nice beach hotel in Livorno. It’s on me. I will send a team to retrieve your gear. You should have your things by lunchtime, if that meets with your liking.

I appreciate your hospitality colonel. You are entirely too kind. I can make my way back to Croatia to get my stuff tomorrow or the next day.

Negative. You relax and enjoy the Tuscan Coast. Besides, I’m not having Lou Stenson call me because I didn’t treat his little girl right.

They both laughed, and made their way out of the bunker. The colonel deposited Kristin at her hotel in his personal vehicle. He assured her that the reservation was for anonymous military personnel. She was stealthy and gone. As far as anyone could glean, she had never been there at all.

Doctor Hughes.

Yes, sir.

I can’t thank you enough for everything. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you appeared, independent of how it all started.

I’m just happy to have helped, sir.

"If you ever find the need to just blow stuff up, you are welcome at any installation where I am stationed. And if you have any screw-ups with your outbound travel, let me know. I’ll personally get you a hop stateside."

Kristin thanked the commander for his hospitality with a soft kiss on the cheek and turned for the hotel door. It had been a really long day and she wanted to soak in a bath.

CHAPTER 2

F our antiquated Russian cargo trucks pounded up the worn asphalt roadway outside the small town of Bereza, Belarus, at a uniform speed, dust flying up from semi-worn tires and twisting into spindles on the roadside. They came to a star-shaped five-sided intersection and turned off, twenty degrees to the left, onto a maintained concrete roadway. Each truck maintained its interval with the next and continued on with little regard for the local traffic.

Midway down the kilometer-long roadway, all four trucks came to a uniform stop at an obviously worn, but serviceable, guard shack. The guard, a sharply dressed Belarus Air Force soldier, came out of the all-window building and stared at the one meter gap between the rumbling lead truck’s bumper and the road crossing rail, which blocked off the entrance. They were either well trained or lucky, the guard thought. The last person who had broken the crossing rail had been sent to Russia. To date, he had not returned.

The guard looked up at the inhabitants of the first vehicle. The driver looked like the average mercenary sort that worked in the area. Once a highly trained soldier, but now, with poor economic times, a gun for hire. It wasn’t an odd sight. Commercial contractors helped the lagging Belarus army out from time to time. They were cheaper than maintaining standing troops in out of the way places. Yup, he looked like one of them.

The second man, casually lounging in the passenger seat, was NOT one of them. Tall and physically fit, with a moderate complexion that spoke more of Mediterranean roots than of the Belarus highlands, he was definitely not a gun for hire. He was also NOT Belarus military. That could present a problem. The guard instantly saw visions of the Russian Urals and laid a steady hand against the trigger guard of his well-oiled type 2 Kalashnikov automatic.

The unimpressed driver of the lead vehicle thrust out eight pieces of paper that appeared to be identification cards. The shadowy passenger leaned over to hand out a single piece of paper and leaned back to his original position. The red star and gold wreath of the Belarus military at its top were instantly recognizable to the suspicious guard.

We have a meeting with Polkovnik Gregor Petrovych. There is our letter of admission and copies of our papers. Open the gate, please. The passenger spoke with a surety that was unsettling.

The guard looked at the pile of paperwork in his hand. It all seemed legit to him. Colonel Petrovych was also present on the airbase. Hell, he’d been there all week. Maybe they were all legitimate? The guard pushed the vision of the Ural Mountains to the back of his mind and handed the driver back the stack of papers.

You will find Colonel Petrovych with the bunker detail. They are located off the north side of the runway. Proceed straight to the dirt track route and go right. You will cross the concrete bunker road after a kilometer or so.

The guard didn’t wait for an acknowledgement, but returned to his glass shack to raise the gate. The shadowy passenger smiled and nodded to the driver, who promptly pulled his foot up off the metal clutch pedal. All four vehicles lurched forward and began pounding down the concrete roadway. The gate guard dropped the gate bar behind the bumper of the last truck and started to feverishly document the whole affair in the gate log. Even if it was all kosher, he wasn’t taking any chances on losing his hard-won rank.

The heavy cargo trucks maneuvered down the concrete entrance road to where the well-groomed tank trail crossed it at a crisp ninety-degrees. The convoy hung a hard right onto the tank trail and a funneling plum of dust rose up behind them. The area around Bereza had been without rain for several weeks and that fact was making itself known to the last truck driver in line. They continued pounding the dirt trail, dust plum steadily rising into the air and being funneled to a square vent by the thick tree line on either side of the track, until they came to the smooth concrete roadway that cut perpendicularly across it. All four trucks skidded to a stop.

The dust plum slid past the man leading the small convoy as he deciphered Cyrillic signs at the intersection. Pointing to the right, the group turned onto the well-serviced roadway and promptly left the dust cloud behind. Equally well-serviced driveways extended from the main roadway at unequal intervals and disappeared into the thick woods. At the end of each drive, a massive steel blast door could momentarily be glimpsed jutting out of the earth. The entrance to each of the air base’s ammunition bunkers was of good quality, and had obviously been maintained.

As one of two air bases to survive the transition out of Communism, the Bereza Air Base had become the home to both the Belarus Air Force and the Air Defense. The VVS was, as most ex-soviet countries were, a modest and